


Bad Stuff

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:43:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in hospital, handcuffed to the bed rail and with no memory whatsoever of what happened. He'd been bingeing, but he hadn't taken anything that should have caused memory loss. It must have been bad stuff...





	Bad Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where in the timeline to stick this, so I'm just calling it an AU. There! (dusts hands off).
> 
> Trigger warning for mention of rape. Nothing graphic, just mentioned.

I awoke to the smell of antiseptic and the beeping of monitors. Hospital then, but why? Other than a deep muscle ache that suffused my whole body, nothing seemed bruised, broken, or bleeding. I looked up to meet a very familiar pair of dark blue eyes. 

"John." When I moved, I heard a distinct "clink" and I looked down to see my right wrist cuffed to the bed rail. "What...?" 

"You don't remember?" John asked. I cast back in my mind, but everything was maddeningly blank. "You remember shooting up?" 

John's eyes were hard and I felt a flush of shame wash over me. I hadn't just been using, I'd been bingeing. He must be so disappointed in me. First things first, though, and first I had to figure out what the handcuffs meant. "So...possession?" I guessed. 

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, that's one of the charges." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "You really don't have any idea, do you? I guess I shouldn't wonder, considering that unholy cocktail you poured into your veins." 

Now I was even more confused. I hadn't taken anything that could be considered a "cocktail." Nor had I taken anything that should cause memory loss. Nothing, just my pure, white, bright cocaine. Had it been tainted with something? That was hard to credit; Billy is always meticulous about the purity of his product. Although...had I even procured that last batch from Billy? With a jolt, I realised I couldn't even remember that. 

I felt a frisson of fear shudder down my spine. Addled though my brain was, it could still parse the equation _bad stuff + no memory = very bad things._ "Must have been bad stuff," I muttered weakly. 

John's eyes flashed, but his reply was forestalled when my brother swept into the room. John greeted Mycroft with, "He doesn't remember anything." 

"How convenient." His response dripped contempt. 

"No, it's true, I..." My words dried up. When Mycroft is angry, he goes cold, and the chill coming off him at that moment was Antarctic. 

Mycroft bit off his words in precise, clipped ones. "Mother and Father have declined to see you. I shall not return. You are a disgrace, and this family no longer acknowledges you." He delivered a crisp backhand across my cheek and stalked off. 

I stared after him open-mouthed. Seeing my watchful, constantly meddlesome brother walk out of my life was like having the ground pulled out from under me. Reality pitched and yawed; I could practically feel myself falling down the rabbit hole. 

My eyes found John's and I stammered, "What did I do?" 

I could see John casting about for a kind way to say something dreadful. Finding nothing, he settled for bluntness: "You raped Molly." 

"No!" This was impossible. But the look on John's face testified to the truth of it. "Oh, John," I moaned. "I was high out of my mind. She must know that." 

"She knows," he agreed. Then, with heavy sarcasm, "That makes it all better." 

I winced, but I didn't protest, because I deserved it, didn't I? I had never felt so ashamed. I braced myself to hear more dreadful truths. "Did I hurt her badly?" 

"Broken wrist, spiral fracture of the ulna..." 

"I twisted her arm." 

"Yeah. Rather impressive collection of bruises." 

I wanted to look away, but John's gaze was holding me, forcing me to face this ugliness. Needing to defend myself, I said, "I never meant for this to happen." 

John blinked at this. "No, you didn't mean it," he agreed. "You just wanted to get high." His voice took on a nasty singsong quality. "You didn't know it was bad stuff. Why, this isn't your fault at all." He leaned over me, eyes blazing, and grabbed a handful of my hair. "What does it take for you to _learn?!_ " He pushed me down into the pillow for a moment, then released me. "You weren't alone. Don't you get that? When those cravings hit, you could have called any of half a dozen people for help. Someone would have been at your side instantly. But no, you just had to stick that needle in your arm. You betrayed our friendship by doing that, Sherlock. You betrayed us all!" He broke my gaze and stared off in the distance for a minute, then slowly shook his head. "I can't. I thought I could, but I can't. Can't stand by you this time." He glared at me, dark fury and utter disdain written on his features. "You disgust me." He walked away. 

"John!" I called after him. No response. "John, please," I begged. But he didn't hesitate. The door opened and closed, and he was gone. 

"No," I whispered in horror. "No, no. No!" Louder and louder, until I was screaming. "No! **NO!!"**

...And I sat bolt upright on the couch, tears and sweat pouring down my face. Nightmare; omigod, what a nightmare. That yawing sensation was back, and I gulped air until the room steadied...but it still wasn't right. Perspective was skewed, the walls and ceiling meeting at what should have been impossible angles. I was suddenly aware that the edges of my field of vision were... _twisting_ somehow. _Bad stuff,_ I realised. _I really did get hold of some bad stuff._ I dropped my head against the back of the couch so I was looking up. Bad idea; the ceiling was suddenly much too close. But if the ceiling were there, then the walls...? 

No. _Steady down, Sherlock,_ I scolded myself. _You're coming down from some bad stuff, that's all. It's gonna be a rough landing, but you'll be fine._ But then a new thought intruded. If the dream had been right about the bad stuff, what else was the dream right about? 

No. Ridiculous. Impossible. But the thought refused to go away, and finally, I grabbed for my phone. This was trickier than one might think, because my arm seemed to be the wrong length. I managed it finally, and called Molly. The instant she answered, my anxiety made my words tumble out almost on top of each other: "Mollyareyouallright?" 

"Sherlock? I'm fine; why?" 

I clutched the phone tighter and pressed on, just to make sure. "Your wrists -- both of them? Fine?" 

"My wrists are good," she said slowly, clearly confused. "Sherlock, what's this about?" 

"Nightmare," I replied. Oh, sweet, sweet relief, just a nightmare. "Just a nightmare, Molly." 

"About my wrists?" 

I clamped down on a giggle. If I started venting emotion, I wasn't sure I could stop. "You broke your wrist, among other things," I explained. "Do me a favor: lock all your doors and windows, and don't let anyone in, especially not me." 

"Especially...what?" But I had hung up. 

Now I had more thinking to do, because even though Molly was all right, that dream still had a lot of truth in it. Dream John had been spot on: the way I was behaving truly was a selfish betrayal of the good people in my life. Fortunately, no one knew this was going on. I could stop right now; sweep it under the rug and all would be well. 

My phone buzzed: John. No doubt Molly had called him with the tale of my very strange phone call. As I moved to answer it, something jabbed my thigh. I reached between the sofa cushions and pulled out a spent syringe, holding it before my eyes for a long moment before chucking it in the waste basket to join its mates. Then I answered the phone and said the hardest words I've ever had to say: 

"John. I need help."

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, hmmm, so there's that. Maybe in my AU, this is just before HLV, and Sherlock decides on a better strategy to draw out Magnussen.
> 
> Did I have you going at the beginning? I horrified myself so badly, I had to turn it into a nightmare. Hope it doesn't come off as a cop-out. I was trying to come up with something horrible enough to make Sherlock swear off his magic potions forever.
> 
> Tell me what you thought!


End file.
